


A Treasure Rare as Entings

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And therefore it should not be viewed by anyone, Anthropomorphic sex-pollen-related dubcon that is okay with everyone afterward, But apparently I’m not allowed to talk about it, Consensual non-anthropomorphic plant sex involving pollen and flowers, Ent sex, Ents, Explicit physical contact between same, Flowers, M/M, Other, Pistils, SO COVER THE CHILDREN’S EYES WHENEVER THEY GO OUTSIDE, Seriously I don’t think normal everyday plant sex is raunchy, Sex Pollen, Stamens, That apparently means this fic is not fit for human consumption, Tree Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7130831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Gimli visit Fangorn in the springtime, bringing along a very important companion.</p><p>Artwork by the marvelous, talented Kooriicolada (http://kooriicolada.tumblr.com)</p><p>Art depicts sexual nudity and is NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Treasure Rare as Entings

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [mithrilbikini (liasangria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini) in the [2000GigolasFics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2000GigolasFics) collection. 



Gimli regarded Fangorn forest with distrust, the edge of the wood rising suddenly from the grassy plain with an abruptness that spoke of geology. Gimli guessed a thick shelf of limestone lay beneath the plain, fostering the lush grasses of Rohan but preventing tree roots from achieving a purchase in the shallow soil. It must end at the verge of the wood, allowing roots to reach deep.

“We will have to leave our wagon, elf. We cannot drive it into that.” He pulled on the reins, persuading their horses to halt.

“Yes. I will carry our burden forward,” Legolas glanced into the bed of the wagon to check on their precious cargo, which sat tightly wedged in between blankets and stones so that the pot could not tip over and roll as the wagon jolted over the rough ground, injuring the gnarled and wizened little apple tree that stood rooted within. “Rómestámo gave me this charge, and I will fulfill it.”

Gimli huffed, somewhat annoyed that the blue wizard had not seen fit to grant him similar trust. 

“You know you are an axebearer,” Legolas chided as the wagon rolled to a bumpy halt and Gimli hopped down, unharnessing their horses. “The ents and trees of Fangorn might take it amiss if they saw you carrying our companion.”

Gimli cut his eyes toward the little tree, doubt in his expression. “Companion? Even you say it does not talk, elf.”

“She,” Legolas chided softly, for the dozenth time. “Her name is Cordof.” Legolas lifted the pot from the wagon bed with great care, ensuring the tree was still well-rooted. “She will be glad to drink of the Entwash,” he murmured, touching the soil. “I hope it will taste of home.”

They took clothes and provisions and went through the new-budded grasses together, leaving their horses to graze. After fording the Entwash they made camp and Legolas watered the tree tenderly, singing below his breath. Gimli could make nothing of it, but he twisted dried grasses together and built a small fire to heat water, taking care to use no wood. The nearby trees whispered and branches groaned as a mild breeze swayed through their branches. 

Legolas smiled up at them. “They are curious about our companion.”

“They will think we hold it—her—captive in this pot,” Gimli fretted. “Will we awaken in a cage of roots and be devoured like loam?”

Legolas laughed, looking at the little tree. “I think not. She is here of her own free will.” He touched one branch, humming softly. 

Gimli frowned at the wood nonetheless, clearly reluctant to keep his promise to accompany Legolas inside its borders. He wrinkled his nose at the air. “This is a poor season for travel,” he grumbled.

“What better season than springtime?” Legolas seemed genuinely surprised. “Look at the leaves, Gimli. They are so young their green is still a golden hue, like the mallorns of Lothlórien. Even a forest as old as Fangorn seems young in the springtime! We will see the first buds of the ferns and bracken as they uncurl from the soil.”

Gimli raised a brow at him, clearing his throat with a wry sound. “If we can see them for sneezing. Look!” He wiped his glove across his breastplate and showed the fine film of yellow-green dust that had collected at his fingertips, glaring at it. “It grows worse with every passing day.”

Legolas laughed and his eyes danced, lingering on Gimli brightly as they often did now that the war was over. It made Gimli’s heart leap in a way that kept him complaining, gruff, so his thought might not be seen. “Foul stuff… we have nothing like this underground.”

“Only plain dust and pockets of bad air that cannot be breathed at all!”

“I led us safely around that place in Aglarond,” Gimli defended himself with some heat. “You mean to lead me straight into the heart of this! I will sneeze until my chest is sore.”

“If you sneeze, perhaps it will quiet your fussing.”

“I will sneeze the night through and stop you from resting!” Gimli threatened, the moment of discomfort safely set aside, comfortably covered beneath the pleasant camouflage of habitual bickering. There was no question that he would follow Legolas, and the elf knew it, leading steadily forward through the woods, where hanging boughs seemed to part to admit him. They closed in to block Gimli, who scowled at them and speeded his pace, staying close enough to Legolas’s heels that he too could pass without trouble. They walked for a time without speaking, Gimli puffing and sweating in the close, humid air, occasionally unable to suppress his sneezes.

“The yellow dust is pollen,” Legolas explained, not seeming out of breath despite his burden. “The trees release it each spring for breeding.”

“For breeding!” Gimli stumbled to a halt in dismay, staring down at himself. “You mean to say this is the issue of trees? They are… climaxing on us?” His voice rose in dismay, and he slapped futilely at himself as if to dislodge the dust, and sneezed mightily.

Legolas made a sound suspiciously like a giggle. “In a sense, you are quite right. But it is different for plants, _mellon nîn_. Since they cannot move to find a mate, they release their pollen upon the air. It falls upon the blossoms of other trees and quickens them.”

“I did not consent to be the target of a vegetative orgy!” Gimli announced, indignant. “I prefer sex between beings who root in one another, not in the soil!”

Legolas could no longer restrain his mirth and laughed aloud, long and delighted. “So much for the legend that dwarves carve their offspring straight from the stone!” He set down his burden gently and turned to regard Gimli, his eyes dancing once more. “Tell me more of what you prefer, for you astonish me!” His lips were open, and his eyes held Gimli’s in open challenge.

Gimli felt his cheeks flame and he swallowed hard. “Hrmph,” was all he could manage. “Will we camp here, then, or move on?”

“Here, I think. There is water close by, and a clearing amidst the roots. I would not like to miss my footing in the dim, and the day is waning.” 

They made camp without lighting a fire, pulling out cold bread and cheese for supper. Legolas was smiling quietly to himself as he cupped his hands in the nearby stream and poured the clear water over their companion. “Our little tree is pleased to be here,” he said. “Her buds are swelling. Soon, I think, she will leaf for us, or even flower.”

Gimli nodded, but now that he had begun thinking of trees in terms of sex, the images made him feel uncomfortable, especially with the elf’s eyes resting on him. 

“It will be cold tonight without a fire. Come rest by me,” Legolas invited, his voice kind.

Gimli already found himself rather too warm for reasons best left unexamined. “I would be a most unpleasant bed companion, sneezing and snorting through the night.” He snuffled dramatically to illustrate. “My pipe will suffice to warm me, if I am cold.” He glanced aside, groping for it among his possessions.

“Tomorrow we will go on to seek Wellinghall, if we may find it. Treebeard will be most pleased when he learns of our mission.” Legolas changed the subject gracefully, but Gimli thought some of the sparkle left his eyes. “I will scout our way while you rest.” The elf rose and vanished into the night without further speech.

“Well, tree-- Cordof, it is just the two of us,” Gimli muttered. “Your virtue is safe with me, I am sure.”

The tree said nothing.

*****

When Gimli awoke Legolas had returned, and he bore a segment of honeycomb wrapped in a broad leaf. “They say among men the honey of a particular land is sovereign remedy for allergies to the pollen that flies in that land’s air.” He brought out a loaf from his pack and tore it, offering half to Gimli. “I do not know if it is so, but it will be a pleasant breakfast, and the bees had plenty to spare.” The honey was pale and sweet, and Gimli chewed a bit of comb slowly, savoring its delicate flavor. 

The little dell brightened as the sun rose and mist burned away, revealing emerald-green moss growing over decaying logs and flat stones. Nearby, soft new grass grew and the ground was carpeted thickly with delicate blue flowers of four tiny petals and a golden center. 

Legolas set the little tree there to enjoy the sunshine while they finished eating and packed their things. Then he took the pot in his arms and they set out, following a path he had scouted the previous night.

It led deep into the wood through winding paths, over hill and dale, and soon Gimli was sweating in his armor, sneezing every few steps and wiping his streaming eyes as they passed through a thicket of young ash saplings in heavy blossom. Legolas seemed in good spirits, singing to the little apple tree in his own tongue. They struck a stream near noon and followed it uphill toward its source. They eventually moved into an area of pine, which caused Gimli less distress, but which soon coated every exposed surface of his armor in golden-green residue. He grumbled to himself but kept the pace, and finally Legolas stopped once more.

“I think this is the place Pippin described. We are at the head of the Entwash, at any rate, and we will wait here a time to see if any ents come.” Legolas carefully settled the little apple tree in a sunny spot. “Word will spread through the trees, and it should soon bring them. Many have seen her today, and in my song I told them of our destination.”

“Why is this single tree so important, elf? Meaning no disrespect,” Gimli said hastily, mindful that he could be heard. 

“She is female,” Legolas answered, blinking at him with some surprise.

“There must be hundreds of female trees within sight at this moment, and many thousands more spread throughout the forest.”

“Yes, though many trees have both male and female parts. But I thought you understood, Gimli: this is no ordinary tree.” Legolas gestured to the little tree, which had indeed begun to put forth leaves; green sprouts showed where there had been barren twigs only the day before. “This is an ent. More properly, this is an entwife.”

“Which ent’s wife?”

Legolas laughed softly. “That will be up to her to choose. The entwives and the ents lost one another long ago, in the second age, when Sauron’s war passed across the land of the entwives in Rhovanion between Greenwood the Great and the Emyn Muil. She survived.”

Gimli eyed the little tree with new respect. “I knew the blue wizard found her far to the east, but I had no idea she was an ent. She doesn’t act like the ones I saw in Isengard.”

“She has gone to sleep, the wizard said. Yet he hoped she might recover among her kind. Look, she sends forth blossom!” Pink showed now on flower buds hung in clusters on spurs of growth amid her branches. Gimli could have sworn there were more than before.

Gimli nodded approval, but motion caught his eye, distracting him. A familiar tree edged its way out of the forest, looking down on the three of them with hesitant eagerness, his branches rustling their new leaves.

“Hoom. Word of your errand has reached me, elf.” Treebeard hardly seemed able to look at Legolas and Gimli for staring at the little apple tree in her pot, and he moved with more haste than Gimli had yet seen from an ent. “Lift her up for me to see.”

“Her Elvish name is Cordof. The wizard Rómestámo found her in the fields of the Easterlings, where she had been made a prisoner and forced to tend their fields and orchards long ago. She slept, and had taken root. He knew her for what she was and coaxed her to move to this pot, so she might be brought home to her people,” Legolas lifted the pot high, and Treebeard reached out with a trembling limb to touch the trunk of the little apple tree, rumbling at length to her in a language Gimli did not know. 

“Last of the entwives,” he whispered at last, taking no notice of Gimli. “Greenleaf, you will go down in the songs of my people for restoring our hope. We will make a garden for her comfort, arranged to her liking, so she she will wish to remain with us always. Entings will roam in this land once more!”

Treebeard took the pot, cradling it tenderly in a crook between branch and trunk. 

“My friend the axebearer has guarded her as well,” Legolas said.

“He is welcome here,” Treebeard rumbled, sparing a swift glance for Gimli. “Thank you, dwarf, for your aid to the ents.” He turned. “I will call an entmoot to present Cordof to my people. It is nearly her time to make entings, so I must not tarry. Go where you will within the bounds of this land, but beware of the huorns… and of the season. But there are two of you, so you will be well.” With those words he departed, taking stiff strides that moved him swiftly across the meadow and into the wood.

Legolas’s eyes brightened. “I would see the ents, Gimli. Come!”

They pursued Treebeard down the valley, slowed by the need to cross tributaries to the Entwash, but his booming horn-calls gave them their direction long after he had passed from sight, and eventually the elf’s keen hearing led them to the lip of the dingle where the ents gathered in obvious excitement, the canopy of their branches moving as if tossed by storm. 

Legolas lifted his head and scented the air. A strong breeze flooded past them, sweeping down from the higher hillsides to their back. He gestured for Gimli to remain where he was, advancing in slow stages down below the lip of the dell.

“As I thought,” he called back. “Your nose will not thank you for this, my friend. The ents are making pollen.”

“I will stay here, then, while you satisfy your curiosity.” Gimli backed away from the edge and let Legolas go on, spreading out their things in a rough camp before sitting down to cold bread and cheese washed down with clear water. The rumbling and trumpeting of the ents troubled him at first, but he soon grew used to it.

Legolas returned near midnight, appearing silently from the darkness, moonlight gleaming on his pale hair and bare shoulders. Gimli blinked at him, noting the absence of his tunic. 

“Would you like food?” Gimli reached for his saddlebags.

“No, I have drunk water.” Legolas sounded odd, his voice resonant and low-pitched, a warm vibration that strummed across Gimli’s nerves like licks of flame. “I have walked among the ents, my friend. You might think to find drama and contention between them, but no. They have rooted, and they stand about Cordof in a great ring many ents deep. Their branches wave in the breeze and the air shimmers golden-green. Our little friend is in full blossom; her branches wave in the air as she walks among them.” 

His eyes caught the moonlight, and Gimli saw they were dilated so wide there was scarcely any iris left about the pupil. It made him think of Edoras, when he had tried to beguile the elf with ale-- this was the effect he had hoped for then. Legolas looked lazy and unfocused, his movements languid, sensual and easy. He was clearly drunk.

“Water only?” Gimli shook his head. “Or ent-draughts?”

“Draughts of the Entwash, cold and deep.” 

“If water can intoxicate this well, then I have wasted much coin on ale.”

Legolas laughed, rich and warm, sending a sweet shiver up Gimli’s spine. “You should come with me into the dell.”

Gimli regarded him with amusement. “No, one of us should stay sober. Besides, I have no desire to make myself sick. What makes you joyful has thus far only served to make me sneeze.”

“Soon Cordof will drop her petals and root in the soil. Then she will make apples,” Legolas murmured, running his fingers through the damp grass. “The ents will plant the seeds, and they will grow to make entings.”

“Will all her entings grow into apple trees? Apple ents, I suppose I should say.” Gimli tried to keep his mind focused, but Legolas was now running his slender hand low over his taut-muscled belly in a lascivious manner, one knee drawn up, his golden hair spread out behind him in a way that made Gimli’s breath short. The elf was aroused, and though his fingers did not stray quite so far, Gimli was aware of the substantial ridge in his breeches nonetheless. 

“I do not know.” Legolas lay back in the grass with a contented sigh, looking up at the stars. “The ents are yet singing. I will go back.” 

Gimli chuckled to himself. Was this the elvish equivalent of an orgy-- to watch trees breed and walk among the showers of pollen? If so, it left much to be desired, at least in a dwarf’s opinion. “Have a care lest you find yourself turned into an entwife, elf!”

Legolas’s eyes gleamed at him as he stood up, a motion like the ripple of flowing water. “You should come,” he said again, and vanished into the night without sound. Gimli stood and followed him to the lip of the dell. He saw Legolas descend, then stoop to remove his breeches, the moonlight gleaming over his pale skin as he darted forth into the trees, laughing, his arms upraised.

Gimli blinked to himself in great surprise, then coughed and turned away. Elves were strange folk indeed, that was all he might say. Dwarves themselves were guilty of many practices other folk might look askance upon, but though his folk loved the stone, he had yet to see one attempt carnal relations with a lode of ore!

He gathered wild strawberries from the green the next morning, waiting for Legolas to return, then ate them all himself when the elf did not. He could find no sign of his friend when he glanced cautiously down into the dell, only the swaying ents, and he tried not to worry-- after all, Treebeard had given them leave to go where they wished, and there were no huorns amidst the strawberry plants and green turf on the hillside where Gimli rested. Legolas knew his business; drunk though he was, he should be safe among the ents.

As the day drew on the weather turned soft, grey clouds that hung in places all the way to the ground, and shrouded the world in a mist of warm rain. It seemed the moisture sharpened all the smells of the forest. A heavy, sweet scent hung over the valley, and Gimli thought it much like honeysuckle.

A ribbon of some darker emotion curled around his heart at the scent, and he did not need to examine it to recognize his jealousy. With it came shame; Legolas had flirted with him for many weeks now, and Gimli had always turned the words aside with a jest, pretending not to understand them. He had rejected the elf’s invitation to come into the dell not once but twice over! 

But it was nothing more than words; he would not spoil their friendship for a foolish misunderstanding. He would not go with the elf hoping for lovemaking, only to find himself expected to strip and stamp about in bewilderment as Legolas carried on some sort of unholy dalliance with the trees. He could see himself now: half-frozen and thoroughly ridiculous, staring at a grove of ents passively locked in some purely spiritual, vegetative version of carnal congress and trying to figure out why it was supposed to be arousing, or trying in vain to get drunk on plain river water.

He paced, grumbling to himself and staring down at the patches of lichen-kissed stone outcrop that pierced the green. “I am no elf,” he whispered, and the words ached. 

Gimli waited patiently, his supplies of food dwindling steadily since he did not dare to hunt-- but no faster than his supply of pipe-weed, for smoking was all that comforted him during the three long humid evenings as he waited for the elf’s return.

Then ents began to climb from the bowl, creaking limbs swaying. Gimli greeted them in politeness, taking care to leave his axe covered in the blankets of his bedroll. A few spoke briefly, but did not stop moving. They sang, reminding him of the elf, and he looked long into the dell, wondering when Legolas would return.

At last Fangorn, Treebeard himself, came climbing out, and regarded him with a booming call of surprise.

“There you are, dwarf. Your elf looked long for you to come.”

Gimli lowered his head, in a sudden confusion of embarrassment. 

“You two-legs do not seem to know when to make haste and when to rest and wait for ripeness. Hm, I know not the ways of elves in this, but perhaps he still blossoms, if you would find him.” Treebeard passed him by, eyes fixed on the highlands.

Gimli shook his head, snarling at himself and at ents and at the world in general, then hastened to rip a tail of cloth off his blanket and bind it over his face, hoping to keep some of the pollen out. All of the ents passing were crusted in the stuff, and Gimli was having none of it; his sneezing and watering eyes were already bad enough.

He tied his makeshift filter over his face and descended into the dell, growling to himself, looking everywhere for Legolas. He found the elf’s breeches first, lying where he had dropped them. Gimli picked them up. They would be needed.

A few ents remained, rooted protectively around the little apple tree, whose petals were all but gone, blowing free in the wind, clinging to wet blades of grass in pink-and-white glory. Gimli went near enough to see the tiny green lumps forming on stems at the end of each blossom-spur: they would grow into apples. The spring sun baked fiercely on the crown of his head, making him feel overheated and dizzy.

He found Legolas not far away. The elf lay on his back, naked, half-submerged in a pool of the river, his arms and legs splayed wide over sun-warmed stone. His hair ebbed and flowed on the eddying current, which was thick with floating swirls of golden dust. His skin was dusted with gold as well, and his flesh stood proud between his thighs. It looked painfully swollen, and Legolas’s breath moaned softly in his throat, his eyes closed against the dazzling sun.

Gimli stared at him for a long moment, engraving the sight on his memory, more than half-envious of the departed trees. Then he stirred and moved so his shadow covered Legolas’s face.

The elf’s eyes blinked open, the pupils still blown wide. He could not focus, but stirred and lifted his arms, imploring. “Gimli,” he moaned. Water cascaded down his arms and over his chest, drawing delicate trails in the pollen dust, gleaming on sun-kissed skin.

“I’d say you’re still in blossom,” Gimli muttered. His stomach felt as if he had swallowed a river-stone the size of his head. Or perhaps the heaviness was in his cock; blood flowed out of his head and into it in a torrent. He found it very difficult to think.

“What took you so long?” Legolas murmured, throaty, and reached for him.

Gimli tried to hand Legolas his breeches, but the elf brushed them aside with a frustrated huff. He caught Gimli’s hand instead, tugging him down.

Gimli toppled with a splash, crying out in dismay, but the elf had him and held him fast, turning him over and nuzzling amorously at his throat. He quickly freed Gimli of his mask and the cloth floated away as Legolas kissed his face. Gimli sputtered, half-submerged, but the water that soaked his clothing was surprisingly warm, and the bottom was shallow, covered in clean sand and small round stones. His head swam, and he tasted honey.

“The pollen,” he muttered as his wits began to melt. Legolas sighed agreement into his mouth, attacking his clothes with the ruthless efficiency of one who has long studied strategy and planned his campaign.

Gimli groaned and seized Legolas’s head, suddenly not caring if his entire wardrobe escaped to float down the Entwash. He drove his tongue into the elf’s sweet mouth, then licked golden dust off his face. He arched abruptly, turning them again, splashing into the sandy shallows of the beach. Legolas laughed up at him, joyous, and gave himself up to be plundered, skin sliding against water-sleek skin. 

All lethargy had left the elf, who lifted himself to press against Gimli, impatient and whimpering. Gimli fumbled with him, but Legolas was too slippery to manage, so he just let the elf flip them over again. He lay back in the water and let Legolas move against him until all his clothes were gone. Legolas laughed down at him from between wet ropes of dripping hair, leaning back to grasp him firmly in one hand. He shifted his legs under himself and poised himself over Gimli.

“You’ve been planning this,” Gimli accused without rancor.

Legolas only smiled and sank down-- and oh, he had; he was slick and sweet inside, tight but ready.

Art by [Kooriicolada](http://kooriicolada.tumblr.com) (http://kooriicolada.tumblr.com)

Gimli growled low in his throat, forcing himself to be patient with the last fading dregs of conscience. Finally the elf was seated, and he stretched his long limbs out before him, his calves on either side of Gimli’s face, leaning back on his hands.

Gimli groaned, hitching up his knees to force the elf upright and reaching for Legolas’s hands to help him ride. Legolas obeyed, swaying gracefully in his seat, his water-spiked lashes closing. Every motion was languid and sweet, burning a slow-hot rhythm through Gimli’s bones as he rose and fell, his back arched. His hair plastered to his wet skin, and his eyes slid closed as he rode, smiling through parted lips soft as rose petals. 

A cloud slid over the sun, bringing a spatter of rain, but Legolas did not stop and Gimli did not wish him to, holding firm to Legolas’s hands, their fingers laced. The first patter swiftly turned to a shower, muffling their cries as heat built between them. The clouds grumbled thunder, but Gimli never faltered, not even as the rain fell in a deluge, ruffling the surface of the river and washing the golden dust from every surface, carrying it away down the Entwash. 

Gimli closed his eyes against the rain, focusing on the velvety clasp of Legolas’s body, and Legolas leaned forward to shield him, rain dripping from the elf’s hair on either side of his face and off the elf’s nose onto his. He licked his lips, tasting the last honey-sweet motes of pollen, and opened his eyes, finding Legolas’s eyes gazing down at his, already beginning to clear-- but there was no regret in Legolas. He clasped Gimli tightly and moved on him with a deft twist of his hips, making Gimli gasp and thrust up hard, climaxing abruptly. 

Legolas subsided against his belly, still squirming, and Gimli managed to slide a hand between him and clasp the elf, stroking until he spilled, warm and sticky between them.

“If you have lost my clothing, elf…” Gimli rumbled, lifting a ribbon of hair off Legolas’s forehead and tucking it behind his ear, but Legolas just laughed at him.

“The trees will not care.” He snuggled against Gimli, not caring at all that they were lying in the river. “Gimli.” He nuzzled a kiss against Gimli’s cheek. “You came.”

“I could hardly help it.” Gimli mumbled, a little abashed. “Treebeard himself chided me for letting you flower unplucked, elf, though you are a bloom so fine I could not bring myself to believe I might have you.” He stroked Legolas’s cheek, wiping away a speck of sand, hoping the tender touch would serve him better than clumsy words; his mind was not yet clear. Perhaps it would never be, not so long as he gazed into Legolas’s face and saw such love shining there.

Legolas laughed with delight. “Perhaps he was right, but we need not wait for blossom time to do this again, I hope!” 

“No,” Gimli agreed, still half-shy.

Legolas rose, giving Gimli a hand up, and waded out into the river to rinse himself, tipping his head back to submerge it and rising with hair flowing sleekly down his back. Gimli bathed rather less gracefully-- going only chest deep and doing more staring than bathing, if truth be told, though he did duck under to rinse the sand from his braid.

"Our Cordof will do well here,” Legolas murmured as they waded out of the river. “The ents cherish her. She is a thing of beauty, precious and rare.”

“No more so than you,” Gimli said, pouring water out of his boots. He hung them over his arm and gave Legolas his hand. Together they walked over the green toward the small circle of ents and the little apple tree sheltered in its center. She still showed a few blossoms, delicate pink-and-white petals cupped around golden centers, glistening with water droplets.

“I thank you, my lady, for bringing me a treasure rare as entings,” Gimli bowed to the tree, and its limbs rustled in the breeze, droplets of rain glittering in the light like emeralds caught in its leaves. 

"Let us go," Legolas said softly, touched by his words. "But we will return when summer's fruit bears seedlings, and we may meet her progeny in the wood."

"Aye," Gimli agreed. "I will come with you wherever you may go. I think my allergies have gone, Legolas!" he declared with sudden optimism.

"That is good," Legolas smiled and led him away, but before they made it a dozen steps, Gimli sneezed so ferociously he dropped his boots.

The little entwife's branches rustled with a sound like laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Many Tolkienistas, including those more scholarly and more obsessive than myself, have argued either for or against the continued existence of the Entwives in Middle Earth. The answer in this story is not based in any claim of definitive understanding of either the source text or the arguments of scholars. It is based on part of this statement from Tolkien’s _Letters_ : 
> 
> “What happened to them is not resolved in this book. … I think that in fact the Entwives had disappeared for good, being destroyed with their gardens in the War of the Last Alliance (Second Age 3429—3441) when Sauron pursued a scorched earth policy and burned their land against the advance of the Allies down the Anduin. They survived only in the ‘agriculture’ transmitted to Men (and Hobbits). Some, of course, may have fled east, or even have become enslaved: tyrants in such tales must have an economic and agricultural background to their soldiers and metal-workers. If any survived so, they would indeed be far estranged from the Ents, and any rapprochement would be difficult—unless experience of industrialized and militarized agriculture had made them a little more anarchic. I hope so. I don’t know." _Letters_ , 179 (#144)


End file.
